Had she magnetized them, Abbas wondered? That was certainly within her capabilities, but he had yet to explain that upgrade to her. He'd wanted to wait until a few more iterations were complete.
He continued watching her in silence.
From him, the "art" of invention had never felt truly so. It was always more of a slow grind. Rigid and scientific.
With Dyna, though, that had all changed.
It truly felt like seeing a vision in his mind made real. A feeling turned tangible.
And even though he completely understood her capabilities currently, he could not say the same for her potential. Where would she be in five years? Or even just one, for that matter?
With the Candle at his side, the prospect equal parts exhilarating and unsettling.
One thing about the future was certain, however: he was very much looking forward to seeing her pick apart those death machines from Morgunov like they were cotton candy.
The mad bastard was going to regret ever letting him see them up close.
Chapter Three Hundred Thirty: 'Surging devils, prepare thyselves...'
Click to display entire chapter at once -- (mobile link)
Man, what the hell was even going on around here, anymore? Desmond Grantier found himself asking that far too often, as of late.
Ever since that little operation in Atreya went awry, it had just been one mess after another. Despite the fact that they'd gotten away with so much money, it somehow still felt like they were poor as dirt.
The reapers were being stingy pricks, of course, not letting him enjoy a nice vacation and splurge on whatever he wanted, but that was to be expected, of course. Desmond had learned long ago that his wants didn't really matter much when it came to Ezmortig and the rest of the Abolish.
He was just a tool. One of countless expendable bodies. No sense in getting worked up about it.
Best to just take things as they came--to enjoy this wonderful thing called life as much as he could, even if everyone around him seemed perpetually determined to stamp it out. Their own included, apparently.
But even that mentality had gotten rather difficult to maintain. It didn't take a genius to see that this war hadn't been going great for Abolish as a whole. Sure, they might've gotten a few good licks in here and there, but what did that matter when it was basically just Jercash on his own now?
Seriously, what were they hoping to accomplish here in Intar?
A dark serial novel. Set in a modern fantasy world called Eleg. Mature language. Updates every day at noon PST by ~400 words.
Showing posts with label ch329. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ch329. Show all posts
Sunday, October 18, 2026
Thursday, October 15, 2026
Page 4183
"The Candle is many things, but a chef isn't one," said Abbas.
"But wasn't it you who told me that practice makes perfect?" The childish figure looked at him, but not with a face that was in any way human. Rather, the head was entirely mechanical, with only a speaker box for a mouth and luminous round lenses for eyes.
"I'd rather have my granddaughter whip something up," said Abbas, bringing the young woman's mansaf immediately to mind. It had been too long since he'd last enjoyed that.
"Which granddaughter would that be?"
"Majida."
"Ah. Would I be able to meet her?"
Abbas allowed a beat to pass. "Not as of yet, Dyna."
"Why not?"
"Frankly? Because you're still a bit too terrifying. I don't want you scaring the poor girl."
For a moment, Dyna made no response. Her glowing lenses twisted and focused briefly, which Abbas had come to recognize as a sign that she was thinking. "Surely, you are far more terrifying than I am."
Abbas chortled. "Not to her." And honestly, he wasn't even sure that much could be said, either, but he decided to keep that thought to himself.
Dyna was a technological leap beyond anything he had ever achieved before, and it was all thanks to that accidental breakthrough that had nearly killed him.
The same breakthrough that had created the Living Core.
The inheritance of such sophisticated sentience from the Candle had been all the proof that Abbas needed to pursue the idea even further.
Unlike the Core, Dyna here had inherited far more than just whatever random nonsense the Candle felt like passing along.
Abbas had harnessed his own consciousness as a blueprint for the mapping and creation of what he was dubbing the "Neural Current."
A truly independent, free-thinking mind. Woven together with ardor but unbound from the Candle--and even himself.
And most importantly, adaptable.
Or in other words, highly upgradeable.
Already, Dyna was quite impressive. He'd been working on improvements for her mechanical frame around the clock, fine tuning its ability to sync with the Neural Current, and the results had been surprising even to Abbas.
He eyed the connecting rods that she'd been toying with while she talked. She'd created a small tower out of them, balancing them perfectly end-to-end in such a way that even a breeze would probably knock them all over.
Then another shock wave arrived from the Candle, making the whole room rattle again, yet somehow, the little tower of rods did not collapse.
Dyna was holding her tiny hand out toward her creation as she glanced at the great glass orb. "That won't work again," she said in her electronic voice.
"But wasn't it you who told me that practice makes perfect?" The childish figure looked at him, but not with a face that was in any way human. Rather, the head was entirely mechanical, with only a speaker box for a mouth and luminous round lenses for eyes.
"I'd rather have my granddaughter whip something up," said Abbas, bringing the young woman's mansaf immediately to mind. It had been too long since he'd last enjoyed that.
"Which granddaughter would that be?"
"Majida."
"Ah. Would I be able to meet her?"
Abbas allowed a beat to pass. "Not as of yet, Dyna."
"Why not?"
"Frankly? Because you're still a bit too terrifying. I don't want you scaring the poor girl."
For a moment, Dyna made no response. Her glowing lenses twisted and focused briefly, which Abbas had come to recognize as a sign that she was thinking. "Surely, you are far more terrifying than I am."
Abbas chortled. "Not to her." And honestly, he wasn't even sure that much could be said, either, but he decided to keep that thought to himself.
Dyna was a technological leap beyond anything he had ever achieved before, and it was all thanks to that accidental breakthrough that had nearly killed him.
The same breakthrough that had created the Living Core.
The inheritance of such sophisticated sentience from the Candle had been all the proof that Abbas needed to pursue the idea even further.
Unlike the Core, Dyna here had inherited far more than just whatever random nonsense the Candle felt like passing along.
Abbas had harnessed his own consciousness as a blueprint for the mapping and creation of what he was dubbing the "Neural Current."
A truly independent, free-thinking mind. Woven together with ardor but unbound from the Candle--and even himself.
And most importantly, adaptable.
Or in other words, highly upgradeable.
Already, Dyna was quite impressive. He'd been working on improvements for her mechanical frame around the clock, fine tuning its ability to sync with the Neural Current, and the results had been surprising even to Abbas.
He eyed the connecting rods that she'd been toying with while she talked. She'd created a small tower out of them, balancing them perfectly end-to-end in such a way that even a breeze would probably knock them all over.
Then another shock wave arrived from the Candle, making the whole room rattle again, yet somehow, the little tower of rods did not collapse.
Dyna was holding her tiny hand out toward her creation as she glanced at the great glass orb. "That won't work again," she said in her electronic voice.
Wednesday, October 14, 2026
Page 4182
So much of this forging process felt entirely foreign to anything he'd ever done before. The Candle was so incredibly powerful that previous methodologies were rendered obsolete. Entire steps could be skipped as a matter of course.
As a matter of frustration, even. The Candle would become annoyed with him whenever he tried to make it do something too simple.
When the tool at your fingertips could actually see the vision in your head, many new things became possible.
A constant push and pull. A push too light, and the Candle would grow irritated. A push too heavy, and the Candle would not be fully synchronized with his vision.
But he was finding it. That precise balance. An exact wavelength.
And the world was opening up before him.
So many ideas were flooding in, old and new alike. Plans he'd made decades ago were suddenly coming alive in his mind with new vigor. Things he'd stalled on. Thought impossible.
Machinery was no longer an obstacle. The Candle had rebuffed him previously when trying to work on his powered armor, but no longer. Multiple advances had been made with that already, though most of said advances were still in his head, queued up and waiting.
At the moment, however, he supposed he needed to take a break. Sleeping was still out of the question, but a nice sit down and maybe a bit of meditation wouldn't hurt. Oh, and perhaps a meal. When was the last time he'd eaten? He genuinely couldn't recall.
He'd crafted a reclining chair for himself at some point, days ago. He'd been meaning to try it out, so now seemed like the perfect opportunity.
He sat.
Ah.
Not bad.
The great orb in the middle of the room was glowing and vibrating. Expressing displeasure with him again, of course.
"Shut up," he said, not even opening his eyes. "You know I'm not actually stopping."
A minor shock wave washed over the room, rattling the shelves.
"You need rest, too, you know. You're a bit overheated."
Another pulse.
"Yes, you are," said Abbas.
"Perhaps we could make something simple. A bite to eat, for instance?"
At that voice, Abbas' eyes actually did slide open, though not with surprise. His gaze turned lazily to his left, where a small figure was sitting on the ground, playing with a pile of tungsten connecting rods as if they were building blocks.
As a matter of frustration, even. The Candle would become annoyed with him whenever he tried to make it do something too simple.
When the tool at your fingertips could actually see the vision in your head, many new things became possible.
A constant push and pull. A push too light, and the Candle would grow irritated. A push too heavy, and the Candle would not be fully synchronized with his vision.
But he was finding it. That precise balance. An exact wavelength.
And the world was opening up before him.
So many ideas were flooding in, old and new alike. Plans he'd made decades ago were suddenly coming alive in his mind with new vigor. Things he'd stalled on. Thought impossible.
Machinery was no longer an obstacle. The Candle had rebuffed him previously when trying to work on his powered armor, but no longer. Multiple advances had been made with that already, though most of said advances were still in his head, queued up and waiting.
At the moment, however, he supposed he needed to take a break. Sleeping was still out of the question, but a nice sit down and maybe a bit of meditation wouldn't hurt. Oh, and perhaps a meal. When was the last time he'd eaten? He genuinely couldn't recall.
He'd crafted a reclining chair for himself at some point, days ago. He'd been meaning to try it out, so now seemed like the perfect opportunity.
He sat.
Ah.
Not bad.
The great orb in the middle of the room was glowing and vibrating. Expressing displeasure with him again, of course.
"Shut up," he said, not even opening his eyes. "You know I'm not actually stopping."
A minor shock wave washed over the room, rattling the shelves.
"You need rest, too, you know. You're a bit overheated."
Another pulse.
"Yes, you are," said Abbas.
"Perhaps we could make something simple. A bite to eat, for instance?"
At that voice, Abbas' eyes actually did slide open, though not with surprise. His gaze turned lazily to his left, where a small figure was sitting on the ground, playing with a pile of tungsten connecting rods as if they were building blocks.
Tuesday, October 13, 2026
Page 4181
Understanding its many contradictions was vital. Seeing through its paradoxical nature. Not being blinded by awe and wonder.
Deep down, the Candle wanted that, too. That was perhaps the most maddening part of it all, Abbas had realized.
The Candle wanted someone to harness it to its fullest potential. Of course it did. That was its most earnest wish.
But it hated incompetence. It hated starry-eyed ignorance. It hated half-measures and excuses and inefficiency.
That was why it had even turned on its own creator, once upon a time. It had ceased working for Agrian, because it deemed Agrian unworthy of its time. It believed, incorrectly, that it would be able to find someone else to take Agrian's place.
But Agrian concealed the Candle's existence. And no one came--certainly no one who could actually use it. The Candle eventually deteriorated, losing its identity even to itself.
For thousands of years, it lay broken. Dormant. An abandoned product of failure and despair.
Now, it was renamed. Reborn. And while that ancient damage may have been "repaired" by Abbas and Hector, it was not wholly forgotten. That, too, was part of its new identity.
It was filled with fear, Abbas sensed. But not of abandonment, surprisingly.
Rather, it feared disappointment. It feared trusting Abbas, only to find that he, too, was unworthy of its time.
And it was always going to feel this way, Abbas realized. There was no fixing that. It was simply part of the Candle's nature. One of its many flaws that had to be accounted for.
That was fine.
He wasn't perfect, either. In fact, that was the essence of their whole problem, wasn't it? The Candle could see through him just as thoroughly as he could see through it.
And yes, while it was always preferable to iron out imperfections--to improve oneself and build toward a better future--there was a bigger picture to think about.
At some point, the work needed to get done.
Fixing oneself, making preparations--at some point, he just had to stop wringing his hands and try.
He could sense the Candle's acknowledgment of that truth, too. On some level, it respected him for it.
Even if it didn't stop trying to deceive him.
Test and tests. Would they ever end? Probably not, Abbas figured. It was the Candle's way of tempering him. Pushing him to improve.
Deep down, the Candle wanted that, too. That was perhaps the most maddening part of it all, Abbas had realized.
The Candle wanted someone to harness it to its fullest potential. Of course it did. That was its most earnest wish.
But it hated incompetence. It hated starry-eyed ignorance. It hated half-measures and excuses and inefficiency.
That was why it had even turned on its own creator, once upon a time. It had ceased working for Agrian, because it deemed Agrian unworthy of its time. It believed, incorrectly, that it would be able to find someone else to take Agrian's place.
But Agrian concealed the Candle's existence. And no one came--certainly no one who could actually use it. The Candle eventually deteriorated, losing its identity even to itself.
For thousands of years, it lay broken. Dormant. An abandoned product of failure and despair.
Now, it was renamed. Reborn. And while that ancient damage may have been "repaired" by Abbas and Hector, it was not wholly forgotten. That, too, was part of its new identity.
It was filled with fear, Abbas sensed. But not of abandonment, surprisingly.
Rather, it feared disappointment. It feared trusting Abbas, only to find that he, too, was unworthy of its time.
And it was always going to feel this way, Abbas realized. There was no fixing that. It was simply part of the Candle's nature. One of its many flaws that had to be accounted for.
That was fine.
He wasn't perfect, either. In fact, that was the essence of their whole problem, wasn't it? The Candle could see through him just as thoroughly as he could see through it.
And yes, while it was always preferable to iron out imperfections--to improve oneself and build toward a better future--there was a bigger picture to think about.
At some point, the work needed to get done.
Fixing oneself, making preparations--at some point, he just had to stop wringing his hands and try.
He could sense the Candle's acknowledgment of that truth, too. On some level, it respected him for it.
Even if it didn't stop trying to deceive him.
Test and tests. Would they ever end? Probably not, Abbas figured. It was the Candle's way of tempering him. Pushing him to improve.
Monday, October 12, 2026
Page 4180
Unfortunately, he didn't know how to respond. Defend himself? That would just sound like excuses. Apologize? And show further weakness? What would that accomplish? Hoping for mercy? Pointless.
He just had to keep in mind that Jercash needed him just as much he needed Jercash. All these mental games--the threats and manipulations--Jercash could only take them so far, since Lozaro was the only one of his subordinates who could use the Red Rift.
A quiet laugh escaped from beneath the Knife's thick mustache. "You wouldn't happen to be thinking that you're... irreplaceable, now would you?"
Lozaro's blood ran cold.
"Loz, Loz, Loz... Shame on you. You're more than old enough to have learned this lesson by now, aren't you?" Jercash leaned in even closer, and the world around him began to distort in that familiarly horrific way. "Everyone is replaceable, my friend. So why don't you go ahead and start trying a little harder for me, hmm? Before I have to show you how upset you're making me."
And all the stars in the sky went dark as Lozaro began to see visions of himself filling the horizon. Countless instances. All screaming in agony, stretching and drowning in an ocean of madness.
Lozaro only wished that he could look away.
-+-+-+-+-
The Candle was burning, but not with fire.
It was ardor. It was life. It was awareness and concentration.
The flow was somehow even more pristine than when he'd started, but Abbas was of no mind to be marveling at the Candle's majesty, at the moment. Nor was the Candle itself of such a mind. It knew itself well enough. And it knew him, too.
They'd learned much about each other in these past few days. Perhaps that had been the stepping off point. The final breakthrough they'd needed.
Abbas Saqqaf understood that Cocora's Candle was a deeply flawed entity. Not the perfect masterwork deserving of endless reverence. He'd been a fool to have ever thought such. Inexperienced and ignorant. Childish, really.
He saw. And he understood. He held the truth in his hands.
No Fusion Forge was perfect. The term 'masterwork' only applied to them in the most informal sense.
It was so obvious to him now.
Their flaws were precisely what set them apart from one another.
The Candle being a petty, jealous, passive aggressive, gaslighting, inhuman monstrosity was a necessary element of its operation.
As was its desire to conceal all of those qualities from him.
He just had to keep in mind that Jercash needed him just as much he needed Jercash. All these mental games--the threats and manipulations--Jercash could only take them so far, since Lozaro was the only one of his subordinates who could use the Red Rift.
A quiet laugh escaped from beneath the Knife's thick mustache. "You wouldn't happen to be thinking that you're... irreplaceable, now would you?"
Lozaro's blood ran cold.
"Loz, Loz, Loz... Shame on you. You're more than old enough to have learned this lesson by now, aren't you?" Jercash leaned in even closer, and the world around him began to distort in that familiarly horrific way. "Everyone is replaceable, my friend. So why don't you go ahead and start trying a little harder for me, hmm? Before I have to show you how upset you're making me."
And all the stars in the sky went dark as Lozaro began to see visions of himself filling the horizon. Countless instances. All screaming in agony, stretching and drowning in an ocean of madness.
Lozaro only wished that he could look away.
-+-+-+-+-
The Candle was burning, but not with fire.
It was ardor. It was life. It was awareness and concentration.
The flow was somehow even more pristine than when he'd started, but Abbas was of no mind to be marveling at the Candle's majesty, at the moment. Nor was the Candle itself of such a mind. It knew itself well enough. And it knew him, too.
They'd learned much about each other in these past few days. Perhaps that had been the stepping off point. The final breakthrough they'd needed.
Abbas Saqqaf understood that Cocora's Candle was a deeply flawed entity. Not the perfect masterwork deserving of endless reverence. He'd been a fool to have ever thought such. Inexperienced and ignorant. Childish, really.
He saw. And he understood. He held the truth in his hands.
No Fusion Forge was perfect. The term 'masterwork' only applied to them in the most informal sense.
It was so obvious to him now.
Their flaws were precisely what set them apart from one another.
The Candle being a petty, jealous, passive aggressive, gaslighting, inhuman monstrosity was a necessary element of its operation.
As was its desire to conceal all of those qualities from him.
Sunday, October 11, 2026
Page 4179
Had the Rift's power manifested already? The more he thought about some of the things he'd seen Jercash do, the more he began to wonder if perhaps--
Hmm? Where'd he go? Jercash had just been over there by a materialized building, talking to a group of Idkin, but now he was--
"Something botherin' you, Loz?"
Lozaro might have jumped out of his own skin, if not for the tickling notion in the back of his mind that Jercash was already behind him.
Again.
This was the third time the man had done this in as many weeks, and Lozaro still wasn't entirely sure how he was pulling it off. And yes, other servants of Jercash's level were known to be capable of such feats, so it wasn't necessarily the Rift's doing, but...
Whatever the case, he didn't have the luxury of dwelling on it right now.
"...No, sir," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. He knew that Jercash took a certain pleasure in rattling him, so perhaps it was unwise to try and deny the man that indulgence, but he had his own pride to think of, too.
"No?" said Jercash, circling around to the left. "You sure about that?"
Lozaro could feel the Rift responding in unison with the man's words, the red glow reverberating seeming almost like a visual representation of his voice. Could Jercash not sense that, too? Perhaps it felt like nothing at all to him? Like the sound of his own voice in his head?
"...Why are you asking?" said Lozaro, still bracing himself.
"Mm, I dunno. Just a feeling I got. Like something's off with you. Like maybe you're a little distracted by something."
Ugh.
"I need you to stay on task, Loz. Things are coming to a head with this Intar business. Lotsa dice being rolled, at the moment. And you, pal? You're one of those dice." The man paused, perhaps to let Lozaro say something, but it didn't last long. "So why have you stopped rolling, hmm?"
Lozaro felt a shiver down his spine and tried to ignore it. "I-I haven't, sir. But progress is--it's not always a linear path, you see. I assure you that, I'm doing all I can to--"
"Bullshit." Jercash was right up in his face now, hand on his shoulder. "You've stalled, Loz. Don't lie. I can tell."
Now that sounded like the Rift talking. Which was even more terrifying, Lozaro felt.
Hmm? Where'd he go? Jercash had just been over there by a materialized building, talking to a group of Idkin, but now he was--
"Something botherin' you, Loz?"
Lozaro might have jumped out of his own skin, if not for the tickling notion in the back of his mind that Jercash was already behind him.
Again.
This was the third time the man had done this in as many weeks, and Lozaro still wasn't entirely sure how he was pulling it off. And yes, other servants of Jercash's level were known to be capable of such feats, so it wasn't necessarily the Rift's doing, but...
Whatever the case, he didn't have the luxury of dwelling on it right now.
"...No, sir," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. He knew that Jercash took a certain pleasure in rattling him, so perhaps it was unwise to try and deny the man that indulgence, but he had his own pride to think of, too.
"No?" said Jercash, circling around to the left. "You sure about that?"
Lozaro could feel the Rift responding in unison with the man's words, the red glow reverberating seeming almost like a visual representation of his voice. Could Jercash not sense that, too? Perhaps it felt like nothing at all to him? Like the sound of his own voice in his head?
"...Why are you asking?" said Lozaro, still bracing himself.
"Mm, I dunno. Just a feeling I got. Like something's off with you. Like maybe you're a little distracted by something."
Ugh.
"I need you to stay on task, Loz. Things are coming to a head with this Intar business. Lotsa dice being rolled, at the moment. And you, pal? You're one of those dice." The man paused, perhaps to let Lozaro say something, but it didn't last long. "So why have you stopped rolling, hmm?"
Lozaro felt a shiver down his spine and tried to ignore it. "I-I haven't, sir. But progress is--it's not always a linear path, you see. I assure you that, I'm doing all I can to--"
"Bullshit." Jercash was right up in his face now, hand on his shoulder. "You've stalled, Loz. Don't lie. I can tell."
Now that sounded like the Rift talking. Which was even more terrifying, Lozaro felt.
Friday, October 9, 2026
Page 4178
Where would that leave himself? Might his own position become quite obsolete at that point? Or greatly diminished, at least?
Which was to say nothing of what the Devil's Knife might actually do with such power.
That was the main reason why Lozaro felt that Jercash must not yet realize his situation: because if he did, then he would have been wielding that power openly. And it was still a recent development, besides.
But perhaps he was just trying to conceal it, as he often did. Every creation that Lozaro had ever given him, Jercash had squirreled away, never speaking of it again.
Even to the point of manipulating their own memories in order to hide some of them.
This cloning business, for instance...
Lozaro had all but given up trying to understand the Knife's machinations for that. Plus, it didn't really interest him in the first place. Politics had never piqued his curiosity. Petty quarrels over petty problems. Unworthy of the visions that true immortals should hold.
Lozaro shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Getting distracted wasn't going to help.
On the bright side, this development had made it so that the Red Rift was now fully mobile--a feat not shared by any other Fusion Forge in history, as far as Lozaro was aware. All Lozaro had to do was transport the dormant base with them wherever they went and then bring Jercash around to get it active again.
So the invasion campaign in Intar had the immediate aid of a Fusion Forge. Another unprecedented advantage.
At the moment, the Rift was sitting on a small hilltop with a raised outcropping, shielding it from view below while still allowing Lozaro to see anyone approach. He'd erected a one-way invisibility layer around it, as well, just to be safe.
He was supposed to be working on a project for the Idkin. They'd given Jercash one of their little floating pods for Lozaro to study and potentially enhance, but the Rift was being especially moody, today. Throwing up sparks whenever he tried to direct it even the slightest bit. Resisting his guidance.
Quite the nuisance.
Perhaps it could sense that he was distracted. Too many things on his mind. Bah. This hilltop vantage point had actually been a bad idea, hadn't it? He'd wanted to keep Jercash in view at all times, but now it was just impossible to not keep stealing looks at the man. Constantly worrying over what might happen next.
Which was to say nothing of what the Devil's Knife might actually do with such power.
That was the main reason why Lozaro felt that Jercash must not yet realize his situation: because if he did, then he would have been wielding that power openly. And it was still a recent development, besides.
But perhaps he was just trying to conceal it, as he often did. Every creation that Lozaro had ever given him, Jercash had squirreled away, never speaking of it again.
Even to the point of manipulating their own memories in order to hide some of them.
This cloning business, for instance...
Lozaro had all but given up trying to understand the Knife's machinations for that. Plus, it didn't really interest him in the first place. Politics had never piqued his curiosity. Petty quarrels over petty problems. Unworthy of the visions that true immortals should hold.
Lozaro shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Getting distracted wasn't going to help.
On the bright side, this development had made it so that the Red Rift was now fully mobile--a feat not shared by any other Fusion Forge in history, as far as Lozaro was aware. All Lozaro had to do was transport the dormant base with them wherever they went and then bring Jercash around to get it active again.
So the invasion campaign in Intar had the immediate aid of a Fusion Forge. Another unprecedented advantage.
At the moment, the Rift was sitting on a small hilltop with a raised outcropping, shielding it from view below while still allowing Lozaro to see anyone approach. He'd erected a one-way invisibility layer around it, as well, just to be safe.
He was supposed to be working on a project for the Idkin. They'd given Jercash one of their little floating pods for Lozaro to study and potentially enhance, but the Rift was being especially moody, today. Throwing up sparks whenever he tried to direct it even the slightest bit. Resisting his guidance.
Quite the nuisance.
Perhaps it could sense that he was distracted. Too many things on his mind. Bah. This hilltop vantage point had actually been a bad idea, hadn't it? He'd wanted to keep Jercash in view at all times, but now it was just impossible to not keep stealing looks at the man. Constantly worrying over what might happen next.
Thursday, October 8, 2026
Page 4177
It was the strangest thing--which was saying a lot, considering the amount of strangeness that Lozaro had witnessed in his life.
And it had taken a while for Lozaro to understand what truly had happened, as well, because technically, the Red Rift still existed in its previous form, too. It had shrunken itself down from its very earliest days, yes, but it was still a protrusion of pitch dark rocks on a wide pedestal. Simple and unassuming enough to the eye, like a scale model of a grand valley. Something out of a movie set, perhaps.
Until it came alight with its swirling, crimson energies.
The vortex in the center of that little valley was like looking into the captured eye of a hurricane. And through it, all manner of knowledge and imagery could be glimpsed.
But the Rift didn't do that anymore. Not on its own, anyway. It had gone dormant, and for a quite some time, Lozaro had thought it simply dead.
Until, that was, Jercash had entered its proximity, and suddenly the Forge surged back to life with more vigor than Lozaro had ever witnessed it before.
At first, he'd thought that the Rift was simply being temperamental with him. Moody and obnoxious. But the more he dove into the deeper recesses of its woven ardor, the more apparent the truth become, regardless of how much he hadn't wanted to believe it.
The ardor of the Rift was simply not there, anymore.
It wasn't weakened or leaking or anything of the sort.
But it hadn't just migrated into Jercash's body, either. Even now, Lozaro still did not know where exactly the Rift's ardor resided. All he knew for sure was that it only returned to the Rift's old body when Jercash was present.
Which had further made Lozaro wonder if Jercash had become some kind of catalyst or key. Not actually the Rift himself, surely. Just the mechanism to unlock its power.
But no. That theory had dwindled into nothingness, as well, because he'd begun to notice the Rift becoming affected by Jercash's mood. And even by his expressed desires, too.
Things had not yet progressed to the point of Jercash simply commanding the Rift outright, wielding its creative power as his very own, but that might have only been because the man hadn't tried.
And Lozaro was terrified of what would happen if he did.
And it had taken a while for Lozaro to understand what truly had happened, as well, because technically, the Red Rift still existed in its previous form, too. It had shrunken itself down from its very earliest days, yes, but it was still a protrusion of pitch dark rocks on a wide pedestal. Simple and unassuming enough to the eye, like a scale model of a grand valley. Something out of a movie set, perhaps.
Until it came alight with its swirling, crimson energies.
The vortex in the center of that little valley was like looking into the captured eye of a hurricane. And through it, all manner of knowledge and imagery could be glimpsed.
But the Rift didn't do that anymore. Not on its own, anyway. It had gone dormant, and for a quite some time, Lozaro had thought it simply dead.
Until, that was, Jercash had entered its proximity, and suddenly the Forge surged back to life with more vigor than Lozaro had ever witnessed it before.
At first, he'd thought that the Rift was simply being temperamental with him. Moody and obnoxious. But the more he dove into the deeper recesses of its woven ardor, the more apparent the truth become, regardless of how much he hadn't wanted to believe it.
The ardor of the Rift was simply not there, anymore.
It wasn't weakened or leaking or anything of the sort.
But it hadn't just migrated into Jercash's body, either. Even now, Lozaro still did not know where exactly the Rift's ardor resided. All he knew for sure was that it only returned to the Rift's old body when Jercash was present.
Which had further made Lozaro wonder if Jercash had become some kind of catalyst or key. Not actually the Rift himself, surely. Just the mechanism to unlock its power.
But no. That theory had dwindled into nothingness, as well, because he'd begun to notice the Rift becoming affected by Jercash's mood. And even by his expressed desires, too.
Things had not yet progressed to the point of Jercash simply commanding the Rift outright, wielding its creative power as his very own, but that might have only been because the man hadn't tried.
And Lozaro was terrified of what would happen if he did.
Wednesday, October 7, 2026
Page 4176
But he hadn't much cared for organics, either, despite diving into various fields for that, as well.
No, his passion truly lay in physics. In the fundamental laws. And the realms beyond. How they might bend. And more importantly, how they might be bent.
That was the birthing principle behind the Red Rift, after all: to create a Forge that could not just reach out and touch those realms, but also allow him to do so, personally.
Unfortunately, the Red Rift had fulfilled that role far more effectively than Lozaro had ever imagined. And it had undergone so many changes of its own. First by devouring ravenously. Then by BEING devoured itself. Then by subsuming its devourer. And then transforming into an altogether unrecognizable entity.
Calling the Forge a problem, at this point, didn't even begin to describe it, anymore. Lozaro didn't know if the Rift could have ever truly been considered a child of his own creation, but these days, that notion was especially far from the truth.
In the beginning, it was obviously Hamish's brainchild and labor of love, but after he went completely mad, Lozaro decided to bring his work to fruition. So then who was its creator truly? For the longest time, Lozaro had boldly claimed that it was his own, but the fact that he had yet to create a second Forge, despite many earnest attempts, did not bode well for his credibility.
And perhaps the Rift had begun to sense that uncertainty in him--and resented him for it, too. He'd read the historical accounts of breakdowns between Forges and their creators, but he'd never expected to be as pitifully simple as a lack of confidence.
Simple to begin with, at least. Not so much anymore.
Not when the Forge was walking around in human form, talking to people in plain sight.
Giving them orders, too.
Lozaro eyed Jercash from afar, as he had often done in recent years, wondering again just how much the Devil's Knife understood about his own nature.
With that man, it was almost impossible to be sure of anything, but as far as Lozaro had been able to tell, Jercash seemed unaware. Which was a maddening thing, quite frankly, in so many different ways.
That much power. Locked away in the mind and body of a human being. Dormant, perhaps. Or just manifesting in ways unseen.
No, his passion truly lay in physics. In the fundamental laws. And the realms beyond. How they might bend. And more importantly, how they might be bent.
That was the birthing principle behind the Red Rift, after all: to create a Forge that could not just reach out and touch those realms, but also allow him to do so, personally.
Unfortunately, the Red Rift had fulfilled that role far more effectively than Lozaro had ever imagined. And it had undergone so many changes of its own. First by devouring ravenously. Then by BEING devoured itself. Then by subsuming its devourer. And then transforming into an altogether unrecognizable entity.
Calling the Forge a problem, at this point, didn't even begin to describe it, anymore. Lozaro didn't know if the Rift could have ever truly been considered a child of his own creation, but these days, that notion was especially far from the truth.
In the beginning, it was obviously Hamish's brainchild and labor of love, but after he went completely mad, Lozaro decided to bring his work to fruition. So then who was its creator truly? For the longest time, Lozaro had boldly claimed that it was his own, but the fact that he had yet to create a second Forge, despite many earnest attempts, did not bode well for his credibility.
And perhaps the Rift had begun to sense that uncertainty in him--and resented him for it, too. He'd read the historical accounts of breakdowns between Forges and their creators, but he'd never expected to be as pitifully simple as a lack of confidence.
Simple to begin with, at least. Not so much anymore.
Not when the Forge was walking around in human form, talking to people in plain sight.
Giving them orders, too.
Lozaro eyed Jercash from afar, as he had often done in recent years, wondering again just how much the Devil's Knife understood about his own nature.
With that man, it was almost impossible to be sure of anything, but as far as Lozaro had been able to tell, Jercash seemed unaware. Which was a maddening thing, quite frankly, in so many different ways.
That much power. Locked away in the mind and body of a human being. Dormant, perhaps. Or just manifesting in ways unseen.
Sunday, October 4, 2026
Page 4175
Technically, this wasn't the first time the Lantern had ever attempted to make something all on its own, but this was the most mass that it had ever produced. The last one had been more than a decade ago--and barely bigger than a golf ball, besides.
This melted lump was the size of a watermelon.
At the very least, though, it demonstrated a certain level of enthusiasm from the Lantern. It wanted something from him.
"What's gotten you so excited?" he asked. "We just made something yesterday. Is that not enough for you?"
The whole chamber lit up, which was a bit of a dangerous sign, Luann knew, but he held firm and listened for the response. If it was doing this, it must have been feeling quite strongly indeed.
Stop making swords.
The glow diminished harmlessly, and yet, somehow, Luann still felt a bit wounded. "I... I haven't only been..." But as he thought back on his last ten projects, he found himself unable to finish that sentence.
The item yesterday had indeed been a component for another planned upgrade to the Blade of Perdition. Then there was the Knife of Knowing. And the Shining Cleaver. And the Punctioner. The Cliff Maker. The Kitcheneer. The Twin Blades of Boros. The Quintet of Quentin. And then, of course, there were the Spiraling Swords--a whole catalog of blades unto itself, numerous enough to arm a platoon.
Hmm. When WAS the last time he made something else?
A gust of wind swirled through the chamber, rustling his black hair.
"Okay, okay," said Luann. "What would YOU like to make, then?"
-+-+-+-+-
Lozaro's gangly hands worked quickly but with precision. Too many years of practice had rendered even the complex work of repairing a transformer into a rote and mindless activity for him. The damage was obvious. The parts in need of replacement, obvious. The connecting circuits, too. Obvious.
He hadn't built this transformer himself, but he might as well have for how easily it laid its secrets bare to him. Though, if he had, then it wouldn't have broken like this in the first place. Shoddy workmanship like this would never have left his table.
Electrical engineering wasn't one of his areas of expertise. Working with machines had never been anything more than a passing fancy to him, really. Fun little puzzles but not much more than that.
This melted lump was the size of a watermelon.
At the very least, though, it demonstrated a certain level of enthusiasm from the Lantern. It wanted something from him.
"What's gotten you so excited?" he asked. "We just made something yesterday. Is that not enough for you?"
The whole chamber lit up, which was a bit of a dangerous sign, Luann knew, but he held firm and listened for the response. If it was doing this, it must have been feeling quite strongly indeed.
Stop making swords.
The glow diminished harmlessly, and yet, somehow, Luann still felt a bit wounded. "I... I haven't only been..." But as he thought back on his last ten projects, he found himself unable to finish that sentence.
The item yesterday had indeed been a component for another planned upgrade to the Blade of Perdition. Then there was the Knife of Knowing. And the Shining Cleaver. And the Punctioner. The Cliff Maker. The Kitcheneer. The Twin Blades of Boros. The Quintet of Quentin. And then, of course, there were the Spiraling Swords--a whole catalog of blades unto itself, numerous enough to arm a platoon.
Hmm. When WAS the last time he made something else?
A gust of wind swirled through the chamber, rustling his black hair.
"Okay, okay," said Luann. "What would YOU like to make, then?"
-+-+-+-+-
Lozaro's gangly hands worked quickly but with precision. Too many years of practice had rendered even the complex work of repairing a transformer into a rote and mindless activity for him. The damage was obvious. The parts in need of replacement, obvious. The connecting circuits, too. Obvious.
He hadn't built this transformer himself, but he might as well have for how easily it laid its secrets bare to him. Though, if he had, then it wouldn't have broken like this in the first place. Shoddy workmanship like this would never have left his table.
Electrical engineering wasn't one of his areas of expertise. Working with machines had never been anything more than a passing fancy to him, really. Fun little puzzles but not much more than that.
Thursday, October 1, 2026
Page 4174
Even now, without touching it, Luann was again sensing something different from the gargantuan thing. Its segmented, cylindrical body was glowing with a soft amber light, just as usual, but there was an undercurrent of activity within its ardor. Stirring around inside it. Bleeding out into the surrounding walls, as well.
How odd. And slightly concerning, too. That wasn't a containment leak, was it? Damage in the weave? Surely not. Nothing had breached this chamber. He was sure of it.
He had to check, though. It would be absolutely disastrous if he was wrong here.
He approached the Lantern's wide base, which on its own was still as big as a small house. There were four tubes--one for each cardinal direction--that fed into the central chamber, and each was large enough for him to walk through without ducking.
But only when they were open. Right now, they were all shut.
Wait a minute.
Was it... working on something?
He hadn't put anything in there. But the activity was unmistakable. Flowing ardor. Thinking ardor.
He rapped on the shut metal door with his knuckle. "Hey," he said in Ghisi, "what are you doing in there? You're supposed to be resting."
It didn't even occur to him that someone else might have placed something in there. That was an even greater absurdity than the idea the Forge was conducting work all on its own.
Air released from the upper segments in the main cylinder, as if he'd just pulled a pressure release valve. But beyond that, the Lantern did not yet respond. Was that a sigh?
He was about to ask again when the door slid apart on its own, opening the way for him into the Lantern's core.
A thick murk awaited him, glowing with the same amber light, and he brushed it away with his hands as if having to clear through overgrown foliage. What was this smell? Burning metal? That couldn't be good.
He soon discovered the half-melted results of the Lantern's solitary work. It was just sitting there, waiting for him on a raised pedestal.
Luann frowned as he examined its aura, not daring to touch it yet.
What a mess. Smoking. Distorted. Certainly not a successful creation by any conventional metric.
He bit his lip, unsure what to say. While he didn't necessarily wish to encourage this behavior, he also didn't want to be too critical. The Lantern was his child, after all.
How odd. And slightly concerning, too. That wasn't a containment leak, was it? Damage in the weave? Surely not. Nothing had breached this chamber. He was sure of it.
He had to check, though. It would be absolutely disastrous if he was wrong here.
He approached the Lantern's wide base, which on its own was still as big as a small house. There were four tubes--one for each cardinal direction--that fed into the central chamber, and each was large enough for him to walk through without ducking.
But only when they were open. Right now, they were all shut.
Wait a minute.
Was it... working on something?
He hadn't put anything in there. But the activity was unmistakable. Flowing ardor. Thinking ardor.
He rapped on the shut metal door with his knuckle. "Hey," he said in Ghisi, "what are you doing in there? You're supposed to be resting."
It didn't even occur to him that someone else might have placed something in there. That was an even greater absurdity than the idea the Forge was conducting work all on its own.
Air released from the upper segments in the main cylinder, as if he'd just pulled a pressure release valve. But beyond that, the Lantern did not yet respond. Was that a sigh?
He was about to ask again when the door slid apart on its own, opening the way for him into the Lantern's core.
A thick murk awaited him, glowing with the same amber light, and he brushed it away with his hands as if having to clear through overgrown foliage. What was this smell? Burning metal? That couldn't be good.
He soon discovered the half-melted results of the Lantern's solitary work. It was just sitting there, waiting for him on a raised pedestal.
Luann frowned as he examined its aura, not daring to touch it yet.
What a mess. Smoking. Distorted. Certainly not a successful creation by any conventional metric.
He bit his lip, unsure what to say. While he didn't necessarily wish to encourage this behavior, he also didn't want to be too critical. The Lantern was his child, after all.
Wednesday, September 30, 2026
Page 4173
Either way, he'd been developing countermeasures for that, too. Sealing the workshop off completely had been the first step, but that had been far from enough to solve the problem. He'd eventually discovered that the insect hordes were being long-jumped into various spatial weak points within the workshop.
In other words, even after he'd sealed all the physical cracks, the saboteurs had begun taking advantage of metaphysical ones.
And the insects were getting more deadly, too. He'd found a few Jaskadan jumper ants in the mix, but thankfully, he'd known to prioritize them before they did too much damage.
He couldn't wait to turn the tables on whoever was sending them.
This captured Andanatt servant's head might be able to tell him something, but he wasn't going to get his hopes up. That interrogation could wait a while.
At the moment, he was more concerned with checking up on his Fusion Forge. Thus far, none of the attacks had penetrated all the way to the heart of his workshop, where lay the Lantern of Doma, but it was doubtless the main objective of all this harassment.
Through a host of mechanical doors and a dozen more layers of automated defense systems, he found it, just as he'd left it. The Blade of Perdition followed quietly behind him, its fiery sparks having calmed down to a low simmer.
Oddly enough, Luann had noticed that the Blade and the Lantern seemed to have developed some kind of relationship of their own. Something akin to a master-servant dynamic. Or officer-soldier, maybe. Whatever it was, the Blade always settled down in the Lantern's presence, while the Lantern always warmed up a little more when Luann brought the Blade around.
It was fascinating, Luann thought. When he'd decided to try implanting the Blade with a pseudo-consciousness, he hadn't expected it to take form so well and so easily. Perhaps the Lantern was even better suited to making items of this nature than he'd realized.
Or perhaps it was growing in power.
That was a rare but known possibility. He'd been using the Lantern for decades now, and while it was difficult to say for sure since his own skill was improving over time, too, it was increasingly on his mind that the Lantern seemed subtly different in some ways.
Not physically, of course. That would be too noticeable. No, it was in the flow of its ardor. In the way it responded to him during the pinnacle of active work.
In other words, even after he'd sealed all the physical cracks, the saboteurs had begun taking advantage of metaphysical ones.
And the insects were getting more deadly, too. He'd found a few Jaskadan jumper ants in the mix, but thankfully, he'd known to prioritize them before they did too much damage.
He couldn't wait to turn the tables on whoever was sending them.
This captured Andanatt servant's head might be able to tell him something, but he wasn't going to get his hopes up. That interrogation could wait a while.
At the moment, he was more concerned with checking up on his Fusion Forge. Thus far, none of the attacks had penetrated all the way to the heart of his workshop, where lay the Lantern of Doma, but it was doubtless the main objective of all this harassment.
Through a host of mechanical doors and a dozen more layers of automated defense systems, he found it, just as he'd left it. The Blade of Perdition followed quietly behind him, its fiery sparks having calmed down to a low simmer.
Oddly enough, Luann had noticed that the Blade and the Lantern seemed to have developed some kind of relationship of their own. Something akin to a master-servant dynamic. Or officer-soldier, maybe. Whatever it was, the Blade always settled down in the Lantern's presence, while the Lantern always warmed up a little more when Luann brought the Blade around.
It was fascinating, Luann thought. When he'd decided to try implanting the Blade with a pseudo-consciousness, he hadn't expected it to take form so well and so easily. Perhaps the Lantern was even better suited to making items of this nature than he'd realized.
Or perhaps it was growing in power.
That was a rare but known possibility. He'd been using the Lantern for decades now, and while it was difficult to say for sure since his own skill was improving over time, too, it was increasingly on his mind that the Lantern seemed subtly different in some ways.
Not physically, of course. That would be too noticeable. No, it was in the flow of its ardor. In the way it responded to him during the pinnacle of active work.
Tuesday, September 29, 2026
Page 4172
The Blade hovered there above the severed head, burning with an orange light while wisps of flame radiated outward from its serrated edges.
It was actually a much larger and more complex item than it looked. The Blade was connected to an entire computational network that was constantly providing it with tracking data, and the magnets embedded into its body allowed it to work in conjunction with the various magnetic focusing beams around the workshop in order to give it the appearance of true, self-propelled flight.
Still not quite the free-form, fully mobile "familiar" that he'd originally envisioned for it to be, since it couldn't leave the workshop, but hey. It was a work that he remained quite proud of, overall.
One day, perhaps, he would have his pet sword following him wherever he went, cutting down any who dared to threaten his life.
For now, though, this was more than adequate. He hardly ever left his workshop, anyway. Too much could go wrong while he was away, thanks to the Andanatt always hounding him.
He seemed to have become their favorite subject in recent years, which was no skin off his nose. It just meant that they weren't bothering the others as much.
And some of his contemporaries certainly needed the cover. Many were struggling far more than he was, Luann knew. If he wasn't constantly being pestered by infiltrators, he might've liked to go help some of them directly. Provide advice, at least.
But no. That would just put more hostiles eyes on their work, which would be no help at all.
He proceeded to the new janitorial chamber and flipped a few switches. The cleaning bots mounted on the walls came immediately to life and scooted out to work.
They were a bit slow and bulky with their thick wheels, large vacuum hoses, industrial tanks, spinning scrubbers, sprayers, and scoopers; but he couldn't be bothered to make them more sleek or efficient. Cleaning was far from where his passion lay. It had just become an unfortunate necessity, as of late.
The Andanatt weren't the only ones bothering him. They were just the ones sending stealthed human agents. Some other nuisance was sending periodic waves of insects to gunk up his machinery. By comparison, that method of attack had been far more effective against him.
Technically, he supposed the Andanatt could've been behind that, too, but he doubted it. Didn't seem like their style.
It was actually a much larger and more complex item than it looked. The Blade was connected to an entire computational network that was constantly providing it with tracking data, and the magnets embedded into its body allowed it to work in conjunction with the various magnetic focusing beams around the workshop in order to give it the appearance of true, self-propelled flight.
Still not quite the free-form, fully mobile "familiar" that he'd originally envisioned for it to be, since it couldn't leave the workshop, but hey. It was a work that he remained quite proud of, overall.
One day, perhaps, he would have his pet sword following him wherever he went, cutting down any who dared to threaten his life.
For now, though, this was more than adequate. He hardly ever left his workshop, anyway. Too much could go wrong while he was away, thanks to the Andanatt always hounding him.
He seemed to have become their favorite subject in recent years, which was no skin off his nose. It just meant that they weren't bothering the others as much.
And some of his contemporaries certainly needed the cover. Many were struggling far more than he was, Luann knew. If he wasn't constantly being pestered by infiltrators, he might've liked to go help some of them directly. Provide advice, at least.
But no. That would just put more hostiles eyes on their work, which would be no help at all.
He proceeded to the new janitorial chamber and flipped a few switches. The cleaning bots mounted on the walls came immediately to life and scooted out to work.
They were a bit slow and bulky with their thick wheels, large vacuum hoses, industrial tanks, spinning scrubbers, sprayers, and scoopers; but he couldn't be bothered to make them more sleek or efficient. Cleaning was far from where his passion lay. It had just become an unfortunate necessity, as of late.
The Andanatt weren't the only ones bothering him. They were just the ones sending stealthed human agents. Some other nuisance was sending periodic waves of insects to gunk up his machinery. By comparison, that method of attack had been far more effective against him.
Technically, he supposed the Andanatt could've been behind that, too, but he doubted it. Didn't seem like their style.
Monday, September 28, 2026
Page 4171
But the Pool was also not random in its machinations. She was reasonably certain now that while, yes, it did indeed lie for fun, it still never did so without purpose.
"To the Pool," Mistress Yaki had once told her, "everything is a game. No matter how grave the circumstance, no matter how frustrated I become with it, no matter how benevolent its other intentions might be: the Pool will always seek to play with me, first and foremost. It is a most troublesome child, to be sure."
But that was also what made it so powerful in its own unique way. The more Anya had learned about Forges throughout history, the more convinced she'd become that their quirks and eccentricities were deeply connected to their strength.
In fact, she'd begun to believe that the stranger a Forge was, the more powerful it could become.
But only in the right hands, of course. Which was the real problem, wasn't it?
If she truly wanted to become the new mistress of the Pool of Trenoy, then she would have to play games.
And she would have to master them, too--to an extent that even Mistress Yaki had never been able to.
Which was why Anya was reassessing that illusory hand being extended toward her.
There was no mastery without risk. Not with any Forge. But especially not with the Pool.
Perhaps the true answer here was not to balk. Not to play it safe.
But to immerse herself in the illusions. Whatever madness the Pool intended to show her. Perhaps she just had to look at it directly and try to see through it from within.
She took a deep breath. The "Mistress" was simply waiting for her. Quiet and smiling. Warm and familiar.
Anya wasn't sure she'd ever felt so terrified as she did right now.
But she took the hand, and the world warped around her.
-+-+-+-+-
Fresh blood splattered across the far wall as the Blade of Perdition diced up another intruder. The third in as many weeks. Always trying to be stealthy, not realizing that his automated defense systems could detect them even through those invisibility powers they were so proud of.
When would they learn, these Andanatt fools? How many more minions must they lose?
Luann eyed the mess with exasperation. Human chunks all over the workshop. The head was preserved, though, so the adjustments he'd made to the Blade were working well. That was good.
"To the Pool," Mistress Yaki had once told her, "everything is a game. No matter how grave the circumstance, no matter how frustrated I become with it, no matter how benevolent its other intentions might be: the Pool will always seek to play with me, first and foremost. It is a most troublesome child, to be sure."
But that was also what made it so powerful in its own unique way. The more Anya had learned about Forges throughout history, the more convinced she'd become that their quirks and eccentricities were deeply connected to their strength.
In fact, she'd begun to believe that the stranger a Forge was, the more powerful it could become.
But only in the right hands, of course. Which was the real problem, wasn't it?
If she truly wanted to become the new mistress of the Pool of Trenoy, then she would have to play games.
And she would have to master them, too--to an extent that even Mistress Yaki had never been able to.
Which was why Anya was reassessing that illusory hand being extended toward her.
There was no mastery without risk. Not with any Forge. But especially not with the Pool.
Perhaps the true answer here was not to balk. Not to play it safe.
But to immerse herself in the illusions. Whatever madness the Pool intended to show her. Perhaps she just had to look at it directly and try to see through it from within.
She took a deep breath. The "Mistress" was simply waiting for her. Quiet and smiling. Warm and familiar.
Anya wasn't sure she'd ever felt so terrified as she did right now.
But she took the hand, and the world warped around her.
-+-+-+-+-
Fresh blood splattered across the far wall as the Blade of Perdition diced up another intruder. The third in as many weeks. Always trying to be stealthy, not realizing that his automated defense systems could detect them even through those invisibility powers they were so proud of.
When would they learn, these Andanatt fools? How many more minions must they lose?
Luann eyed the mess with exasperation. Human chunks all over the workshop. The head was preserved, though, so the adjustments he'd made to the Blade were working well. That was good.
Sunday, September 27, 2026
Page 4170
When the illusion spoke, it sounded like real words reaching her ears. "Hello, my dear," it said in Luughian.
But Anya was far from awed or pleased. Anger gripped her instead. "What are you trying to pull, you stupid puddle of water? Stop imitating Mistress Yaki this instant."
The illusion of the Mistress shook her head. "I am no imitation, Anya. I placed a piece myself within the Pool upon its creation. I may be flesh and blood no longer, but this is truly me, at least in part."
Anya's ire did not subside, but she didn't know how to respond, either. Could that really be true? Or was it just another of the Pool's lies? The endless trickery. Agh.
"You were there at the Pool's birth," said the illusion. "You may not have understood what you were seeing, but you saw it nonetheless. I was never quite the same afterwards, yes?"
She didn't want to acknowledge it, but Anya knew there was truth in that. The Pool had been the Mistress' first attempt to create a Fusion Forge, and it had been quite rough on her, looking back.
The Silent Serpent had gone much more smoothly by comparison.
"How is Kurata?" said the Mistress. No. The illusion said that. The Pool.
Anya merely remained quiet.
"You are not still quarreling with him, are you? After all this time? Even if you do not believe me to be real, you must know that I would want my successors to get along."
"Shut up," said Anya, albeit weakly. The Pool was so skilled in deceit. It could weave lies out of the truth. She had to keep a clear head. Not be taken in. Regain control of the conversation. "If you really are the Mistress, then why are you only appearing to me now? I have been struggling with the Pool for years."
"You were not ready, my dear."
She scoffed. "And now I am?"
"Perhaps. Shall we find out together?" And the Mistress extended her hand forward.
Anya stared at it, knowing that the illusion was probably so complete that she would even be able to feel the Mistress' touch, too.
But she held back. She would not be deceived again. That was the Pool's most dangerous quality. If she let it take the lead, she could very easily become lost to the rest of the world.
That was the main reason why the Mistress had made the Serpent in the first place: because the Pool had a habit of trying to manipulate even her.
But Anya was far from awed or pleased. Anger gripped her instead. "What are you trying to pull, you stupid puddle of water? Stop imitating Mistress Yaki this instant."
The illusion of the Mistress shook her head. "I am no imitation, Anya. I placed a piece myself within the Pool upon its creation. I may be flesh and blood no longer, but this is truly me, at least in part."
Anya's ire did not subside, but she didn't know how to respond, either. Could that really be true? Or was it just another of the Pool's lies? The endless trickery. Agh.
"You were there at the Pool's birth," said the illusion. "You may not have understood what you were seeing, but you saw it nonetheless. I was never quite the same afterwards, yes?"
She didn't want to acknowledge it, but Anya knew there was truth in that. The Pool had been the Mistress' first attempt to create a Fusion Forge, and it had been quite rough on her, looking back.
The Silent Serpent had gone much more smoothly by comparison.
"How is Kurata?" said the Mistress. No. The illusion said that. The Pool.
Anya merely remained quiet.
"You are not still quarreling with him, are you? After all this time? Even if you do not believe me to be real, you must know that I would want my successors to get along."
"Shut up," said Anya, albeit weakly. The Pool was so skilled in deceit. It could weave lies out of the truth. She had to keep a clear head. Not be taken in. Regain control of the conversation. "If you really are the Mistress, then why are you only appearing to me now? I have been struggling with the Pool for years."
"You were not ready, my dear."
She scoffed. "And now I am?"
"Perhaps. Shall we find out together?" And the Mistress extended her hand forward.
Anya stared at it, knowing that the illusion was probably so complete that she would even be able to feel the Mistress' touch, too.
But she held back. She would not be deceived again. That was the Pool's most dangerous quality. If she let it take the lead, she could very easily become lost to the rest of the world.
That was the main reason why the Mistress had made the Serpent in the first place: because the Pool had a habit of trying to manipulate even her.
Saturday, September 26, 2026
Page 4169
No, she had been biding her time. Researching as much as she could. Especially on the subject of Trenoyis, the ancient god of Reflection. There was also a town called Trenoy in Luugh, but Anya had visited it many times and found nothing of particular note there, other than a monument dedicated to Trenoyis.
It still made little sense to her why the Mistress had named it after Trenoyis. She'd asked several times before the woman's passing but never gotten a clear answer.
The Mistress had often been like that, unfortunately. Enigmatic in the extreme. Talking in riddles for seemingly no reason.
At first, Anya had thought that was just because the Mistress wanted her to use her brain and figure things out for herself. And perhaps that had been true, in part. But toward the end of her life, it had become increasingly clear that the Mistress, for all her brilliance, was simply unwell.
And even after all these years, Anya was still trying not to linger on those memories too much. There was nothing productive to be accomplished. And they were too painful, besides.
The mother she'd never had. Calculating but never cruel. Eccentric but never careless.
Such brilliance gone to waste. Cut short by her own hand.
Afterwards, Anya had researched the subject of suicide among geniuses throughout history. It was a topic she'd already heard plenty about in passing--even from the Mistress' very own lips--so she knew that it was a point of academic interest, but she hadn't realized until then just how pernicious the issue truly was.
Apparently, brilliance was as much a curse as it was a blessing.
And in some ways, perhaps that knowledge was making Anya more hesitant. Supposing she truly did achieve her objectives with the Pool, might she then end up just like the Mistress and so many others? Or worse, even? There were plenty of examples to choose from.
Here and now, though, such worries were the furthest thing from her mind, because all she could focus on was what was in front of her eyes.
The elaborate illusion cast by the Pool.
The Mistress was standing there. Radiant and shining in white. As if she herself were emanating light. And younger than she'd looked before her death, too. Younger, even, than Anya currently looked.
Anya's mouth hung open as she stared, thoughts racing. What was the Pool doing, showing her something like this?
It still made little sense to her why the Mistress had named it after Trenoyis. She'd asked several times before the woman's passing but never gotten a clear answer.
The Mistress had often been like that, unfortunately. Enigmatic in the extreme. Talking in riddles for seemingly no reason.
At first, Anya had thought that was just because the Mistress wanted her to use her brain and figure things out for herself. And perhaps that had been true, in part. But toward the end of her life, it had become increasingly clear that the Mistress, for all her brilliance, was simply unwell.
And even after all these years, Anya was still trying not to linger on those memories too much. There was nothing productive to be accomplished. And they were too painful, besides.
The mother she'd never had. Calculating but never cruel. Eccentric but never careless.
Such brilliance gone to waste. Cut short by her own hand.
Afterwards, Anya had researched the subject of suicide among geniuses throughout history. It was a topic she'd already heard plenty about in passing--even from the Mistress' very own lips--so she knew that it was a point of academic interest, but she hadn't realized until then just how pernicious the issue truly was.
Apparently, brilliance was as much a curse as it was a blessing.
And in some ways, perhaps that knowledge was making Anya more hesitant. Supposing she truly did achieve her objectives with the Pool, might she then end up just like the Mistress and so many others? Or worse, even? There were plenty of examples to choose from.
Here and now, though, such worries were the furthest thing from her mind, because all she could focus on was what was in front of her eyes.
The elaborate illusion cast by the Pool.
The Mistress was standing there. Radiant and shining in white. As if she herself were emanating light. And younger than she'd looked before her death, too. Younger, even, than Anya currently looked.
Anya's mouth hung open as she stared, thoughts racing. What was the Pool doing, showing her something like this?
Friday, September 25, 2026
Page 4168
Move on, the Serpent was telling him. Pursue ambition. Achieve beyond thyself.
Kurata frowned. "Easier said than done, my friend. I've been in a bit of a slump, as I'm sure you've noticed..."
Seek guidance, then.
"Guidance? Your entire existence has to remain a secret so that someone doesn't come along and destroy you."
Excuses. Discard them.
"Agh. I can't go around just sharing details of your operation with whoever I please. There's a chain of command. Sai-hee might be missing, but the Kubi won't just stand by and let me--"
Seek guidance.
"I heard you the first time. And I'm telling you--"
No. You are being told. Seek. Guidance.
The Serpent's glow heightened again, this time with a reddish hue, and the room trembled.
Kurata's eyes widened, and his next protest died in his throat. He waited for the glow to diminish and the vibrations to die down. "...Guidance, huh? Alright. Um. Who should I seek it from? Any recommendations?"
From the Fury.
-+-+-+-+-
The Pool stirred.
Without even turning around, she felt it. The feeling was too strong and familiar to ignore. How many years had it been since she'd last experienced such a thing?
Anya spun around in her chair in order to look, but she was not prepared for what she saw.
The Pool of Trenoy was a deceptive entity. It always had been, from the moment she'd observed its creation at the hands of her late Mistress. She remembered in those early days--before the Mistress' passing--how powerful the illusions cast by the Pool were. They were so strong, in fact, that Anya herself had become lost in them for days, unable to find her way back to reality until the Mistress rescued her.
Looking back on that time, Anya sometimes found herself wondering if those had even been illusions. They were so different from what the Pool had shown her later on. Perhaps, instead of mere illusions, those had actually been true distortions in reality--portals into subdimensions of the Pool's own making.
She'd never been able to recreate that level of intensity. And with the Mistress gone, so too had hope departed with her.
Anya had tried to harness the Pool herself. Many times. But the results were always middling, at best. Deadly, at worst.
She hadn't made a serious attempt at using it again in years now. She still intended to, of course. Hence why she had not simply abandoned it or handed it over to someone else.
Kurata frowned. "Easier said than done, my friend. I've been in a bit of a slump, as I'm sure you've noticed..."
Seek guidance, then.
"Guidance? Your entire existence has to remain a secret so that someone doesn't come along and destroy you."
Excuses. Discard them.
"Agh. I can't go around just sharing details of your operation with whoever I please. There's a chain of command. Sai-hee might be missing, but the Kubi won't just stand by and let me--"
Seek guidance.
"I heard you the first time. And I'm telling you--"
No. You are being told. Seek. Guidance.
The Serpent's glow heightened again, this time with a reddish hue, and the room trembled.
Kurata's eyes widened, and his next protest died in his throat. He waited for the glow to diminish and the vibrations to die down. "...Guidance, huh? Alright. Um. Who should I seek it from? Any recommendations?"
From the Fury.
-+-+-+-+-
The Pool stirred.
Without even turning around, she felt it. The feeling was too strong and familiar to ignore. How many years had it been since she'd last experienced such a thing?
Anya spun around in her chair in order to look, but she was not prepared for what she saw.
The Pool of Trenoy was a deceptive entity. It always had been, from the moment she'd observed its creation at the hands of her late Mistress. She remembered in those early days--before the Mistress' passing--how powerful the illusions cast by the Pool were. They were so strong, in fact, that Anya herself had become lost in them for days, unable to find her way back to reality until the Mistress rescued her.
Looking back on that time, Anya sometimes found herself wondering if those had even been illusions. They were so different from what the Pool had shown her later on. Perhaps, instead of mere illusions, those had actually been true distortions in reality--portals into subdimensions of the Pool's own making.
She'd never been able to recreate that level of intensity. And with the Mistress gone, so too had hope departed with her.
Anya had tried to harness the Pool herself. Many times. But the results were always middling, at best. Deadly, at worst.
She hadn't made a serious attempt at using it again in years now. She still intended to, of course. Hence why she had not simply abandoned it or handed it over to someone else.
Tuesday, September 22, 2026
Page 4167
True to its moniker, the Silent Serpent never made any noise, other than the subtlest sounds of its snaking form brushing against itself. The central chamber was an adjustable 'room' of ten tall pillars, but its walls were all composed of the Serpent's coiling body. Those shifting walls and movable pillars were what allowed the room to shrink or grow as needed, depending on what manner of precision Kurata was looking for.
So he had to be extra mindful of other sensory cues. If something was wrong, the Serpent would never give him any sound-based warnings whatsoever.
Which was why that ethereal glow was so important. It had a rare hue. Just distinct enough for Kurata to be suspicious.
And good thing, too, because not long after he stepped out of it, the chamber converged in on itself completely. The coiling bulk of the Serpent slowly came together and squeezed the center pedestal with such force that, when the Serpent receded, only a pile of dust remained behind.
Kurata sighed.
So much for that project, he supposed.
Granted, it hadn't been going very well, and a part of him had even been thinking about either starting over from scratch or scrapping it entirely, but still.
The Serpent had apparently had enough of his faffing about.
"I know it was bad," he said in Luughian, "but it was a work-in-progress."
The Serpent glowed again, more brightly this time.
Was that irritation? It sure felt like it, but Kurata wasn't about to risk touching the Forge in order to find out.
The Serpent didn't usually have bad moods like this, but when it did...
He still had to hold his ground, though. Letting oneself get pushed around by a Forge was not a recipe for long-term success, even when that Forge had a temperament as favorable as the Serpent. "How am I supposed to learn from my failure when you dust it pre-emptively like that?"
More glowing. Faintly yellow this time. And the body shifted abruptly, too. Fast movement. Very abnormal, Kurata noted.
Yeah, that was definitely irritation. He didn't even have to touch it to be sure now. The Forge was calling him a liar.
You would've been stuck for several more weeks before finally admitting that it was indeed a failure. Stubborn, posturing, time-wasting fool.
Damn. That was actually... quite hurtful. "H-hey. You're supposed to be the nice Forge."
So he had to be extra mindful of other sensory cues. If something was wrong, the Serpent would never give him any sound-based warnings whatsoever.
Which was why that ethereal glow was so important. It had a rare hue. Just distinct enough for Kurata to be suspicious.
And good thing, too, because not long after he stepped out of it, the chamber converged in on itself completely. The coiling bulk of the Serpent slowly came together and squeezed the center pedestal with such force that, when the Serpent receded, only a pile of dust remained behind.
Kurata sighed.
So much for that project, he supposed.
Granted, it hadn't been going very well, and a part of him had even been thinking about either starting over from scratch or scrapping it entirely, but still.
The Serpent had apparently had enough of his faffing about.
"I know it was bad," he said in Luughian, "but it was a work-in-progress."
The Serpent glowed again, more brightly this time.
Was that irritation? It sure felt like it, but Kurata wasn't about to risk touching the Forge in order to find out.
The Serpent didn't usually have bad moods like this, but when it did...
He still had to hold his ground, though. Letting oneself get pushed around by a Forge was not a recipe for long-term success, even when that Forge had a temperament as favorable as the Serpent. "How am I supposed to learn from my failure when you dust it pre-emptively like that?"
More glowing. Faintly yellow this time. And the body shifted abruptly, too. Fast movement. Very abnormal, Kurata noted.
Yeah, that was definitely irritation. He didn't even have to touch it to be sure now. The Forge was calling him a liar.
You would've been stuck for several more weeks before finally admitting that it was indeed a failure. Stubborn, posturing, time-wasting fool.
Damn. That was actually... quite hurtful. "H-hey. You're supposed to be the nice Forge."
Monday, September 21, 2026
Page 4166
Agh, there was so much to do.
That was always the case for him, of course, but it typically didn't annoy him like this, because that to-do list was always on his terms. Things to be invented. Long-simmering ideas just waiting for him to pursue them.
Fun stuff, in other words.
But here and now, he was truly on the backfoot again. Never a good feeling. If another attack arrived right now, it would only result in further losses.
Damn Vannies. They'd actually struck a solid blow against him for the first time in a long time. He didn't even want to talk to Jercash again, despite knowing that he should.
In all this chaos, that sly boy was most certainly in a favorable position, right now. Morgunov greatly disliked this feeling of vulnerability in comparison to him.
Perhaps this was finally when Jercash would decide to betray him. After all these years and the claims of loyalty, Morgunov had never fully put his trust in him. Nor would he, even if Jercash decided not to make his move now.
Affection was for pets and toys.
In that regard, at least, Morgunov and Dozer had been of one mind.
Oh goodness. He wasn't actually going to start missing that old jerk, now was he? That was the last thing that he wanted to--
One of his Roberts inside the workshop picked up a strange reading. Vibrations? And electricity? Stemming from where?
He got his answer when the Clown Pit reached out to him directly.
Howling. Clawing. A wordless frenzy, scratching at the walls that guarded Morgunov's mind.
What the--?
The Obsidian Shell shook beneath his feet, making him hold onto the railing even more tightly.
Then the horizon came alive with a light so bright that it would have surely blinded him without his passive souls defense that allowed him to keep looking right into the heart of it.
A great pillar of fire. Shooting up straight out of the workshop. An eruption from a volcano that didn't exist there.
An attack? It couldn't be. The Pit was still communicating with him. It wasn't scared or dying. Not weak or even wounded.
It was angry.
-+-+-+-+-
The Silent Serpent glowed with an ethereal light. Its curving, scaly body moved up and down, coiling uncomfortably close around him before giving him room to breathe again.
Kurata paused his work, feeling at once that something was amiss, and decided to step out of the central chamber, just to be safe.
That was always the case for him, of course, but it typically didn't annoy him like this, because that to-do list was always on his terms. Things to be invented. Long-simmering ideas just waiting for him to pursue them.
Fun stuff, in other words.
But here and now, he was truly on the backfoot again. Never a good feeling. If another attack arrived right now, it would only result in further losses.
Damn Vannies. They'd actually struck a solid blow against him for the first time in a long time. He didn't even want to talk to Jercash again, despite knowing that he should.
In all this chaos, that sly boy was most certainly in a favorable position, right now. Morgunov greatly disliked this feeling of vulnerability in comparison to him.
Perhaps this was finally when Jercash would decide to betray him. After all these years and the claims of loyalty, Morgunov had never fully put his trust in him. Nor would he, even if Jercash decided not to make his move now.
Affection was for pets and toys.
In that regard, at least, Morgunov and Dozer had been of one mind.
Oh goodness. He wasn't actually going to start missing that old jerk, now was he? That was the last thing that he wanted to--
One of his Roberts inside the workshop picked up a strange reading. Vibrations? And electricity? Stemming from where?
He got his answer when the Clown Pit reached out to him directly.
Howling. Clawing. A wordless frenzy, scratching at the walls that guarded Morgunov's mind.
What the--?
The Obsidian Shell shook beneath his feet, making him hold onto the railing even more tightly.
Then the horizon came alive with a light so bright that it would have surely blinded him without his passive souls defense that allowed him to keep looking right into the heart of it.
A great pillar of fire. Shooting up straight out of the workshop. An eruption from a volcano that didn't exist there.
An attack? It couldn't be. The Pit was still communicating with him. It wasn't scared or dying. Not weak or even wounded.
It was angry.
-+-+-+-+-
The Silent Serpent glowed with an ethereal light. Its curving, scaly body moved up and down, coiling uncomfortably close around him before giving him room to breathe again.
Kurata paused his work, feeling at once that something was amiss, and decided to step out of the central chamber, just to be safe.
Saturday, September 19, 2026
Page 4165
Those needed to be recovered. As many as possible. He didn't wish to give those Vannie bastards any more help recreating his technology. It was almost certainly inevitable in the long term, but that didn't mean he had to make it easy for them.
When he finally arrived atop the Obsidian Shell and stepped out onto the small deck, he had to lean against the black railing for support. Ugh. So sore, even after all that rest. Somehow, he could still feel the bite marks all over his body, too. Was that real pain? Or just psychosomatic? He truly was not sure, but he sure hoped it was the former.
And to think, he and that damn dog had actually ended up on the same side. He could only imagine how much worse this would've been if they'd remained enemies.
Gohvis was almost certainly going to be a problem, though. Morgunov had been looking forward to having a conversation with that surly lizard, but the jerk hadn't shown himself this whole time, either. He must've been licking his wounds, too, after that encounter. Sure, he might not have fought Koh for as long as Morgunov did, but he HAD faced the beast after its remarkable transformation.
Which was another thing that Morgunov had been trying to puzzle out during all this downtime. What exactly had happened back there? The dog had merged with the feldeath, apparently, but how? What in the world had prompted it? In his long study of feldeaths, he'd never even imagined such a possibility.
But now that he knew about it, he was actually excited to start--
Ah. There it was in the distance. Finally. His favorite workshop.
Yeah, it wasn't looking so hot, at the moment. This was his first time being back here personally after the ambush, and he could see a few pillars of smoke rising out of the aboveground buildings. Felled trees. Missing hilltops. And that mountain in the back had been turned into two mountains. Who the heck did that? Probably some angry dork who'd been fighting his Roberts. Talk about ruining the view.
But at least the whole workshop wasn't a crater. The Clown Pit was at the very bottom of a deep, underground labyrinth, and he could see--and also sense--his Roberts patrolling the area both around and inside the workshop. Everything seemed to be mostly intact. The Vannies had, unfortunately, been able to free all of his hostages, but oh well. A trivial loss in comparison to what could have happened.
When he finally arrived atop the Obsidian Shell and stepped out onto the small deck, he had to lean against the black railing for support. Ugh. So sore, even after all that rest. Somehow, he could still feel the bite marks all over his body, too. Was that real pain? Or just psychosomatic? He truly was not sure, but he sure hoped it was the former.
And to think, he and that damn dog had actually ended up on the same side. He could only imagine how much worse this would've been if they'd remained enemies.
Gohvis was almost certainly going to be a problem, though. Morgunov had been looking forward to having a conversation with that surly lizard, but the jerk hadn't shown himself this whole time, either. He must've been licking his wounds, too, after that encounter. Sure, he might not have fought Koh for as long as Morgunov did, but he HAD faced the beast after its remarkable transformation.
Which was another thing that Morgunov had been trying to puzzle out during all this downtime. What exactly had happened back there? The dog had merged with the feldeath, apparently, but how? What in the world had prompted it? In his long study of feldeaths, he'd never even imagined such a possibility.
But now that he knew about it, he was actually excited to start--
Ah. There it was in the distance. Finally. His favorite workshop.
Yeah, it wasn't looking so hot, at the moment. This was his first time being back here personally after the ambush, and he could see a few pillars of smoke rising out of the aboveground buildings. Felled trees. Missing hilltops. And that mountain in the back had been turned into two mountains. Who the heck did that? Probably some angry dork who'd been fighting his Roberts. Talk about ruining the view.
But at least the whole workshop wasn't a crater. The Clown Pit was at the very bottom of a deep, underground labyrinth, and he could see--and also sense--his Roberts patrolling the area both around and inside the workshop. Everything seemed to be mostly intact. The Vannies had, unfortunately, been able to free all of his hostages, but oh well. A trivial loss in comparison to what could have happened.
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